The Comedies and Tragedies of 221B
by Ballykissangel
Summary: The home of the drabbles, one shots, ideas, and prompts that keep me up all night and my fingers itching to write. All sorts of genres, feels, and even some AU's. No slash, just epic friendship and heavy angst. Prompts and reviews are muse food.
1. Hey, Mr Blue

_A/N: _This is a short companion piece to my _When Evening Falls So Hard_ series and it is set right after the boys get back to 221B.

It is also connected to My_ Remains Of The Day_ one shot.

For the ones who have not read those story's yet, this is set right after Sherlock meets John after coming back from the fall and the events with Moriarty and they both go see Mrs. Hudson at 221B and Mrs. Hudson gets to see Sherlock alive again.

I hope you like it and I am looking forward to your reviews and ideas for my new drabble series.

_Thank you Chestry007 for the editing_

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, I'm just visiting around with them.

* * *

She didn't even hear him come into the kitchen, she just turned around and there he was.

Faded and tired, the golden sunlight streaming in from the kitchen window behind him. She just stood there, her eyes trying to convince her mind of the evidence of life that stood before her. Not daring to move unless he disappeared as silently as he had come.

Finding himself at a loss for words by the look on Mrs. Hudson's face, Sherlock could not look her in the eye, and so he bowed his head and focused his eyes on the bunch of flowers he held. Much to his dismay, they started to blur, their blue becoming watery. He blinked down at them, stood there and waited. Waited for the blow of pain, anger and questions to come.

"Hello, boy." She softly whispered.

At those words he slowly lifted his head and took a choked breath as he slowly held out the familiar bunch of graveyard flowers out to her. They were the flowers she had planted on his grave, during one of her first visits. Surprisingly, they were still fresh and blue, despite not having been tended regularly.

"I... I have..." He managed to say, before his emotions overtook him, freezing his voice and then all he could do was stand there.

And before he knew it, she had her arms around him and he bent and hugged her close, in the old familiar way of times past. After a few moments, it was her voice that finally broke the frozen silence of the room.

"I don't know how and I don't know why, because old people like me know that once people are gone, like you were, they do not ever come back. But I do know this, I won't ever give you up again."

He felt the tears slide down his cheek and fall onto the shoulder of Mrs. Hudson's dress. He found his words, they filled him and he took his chance.

"I never meant for you to, Mrs. Hudson." He said in a wavering voice, with his face buried in her shoulder as he let her hold him close. She sighed, and the tears slowly made their way down her cheeks as she slowly stroked the back of the worn black coat.

"You silly boy, you went and did it didn't you? You went some place far from us. A little too far, where even you couldn't save yourself."

He found that his words quickly deserted him again and could only nod silently and try not to burst into tears like a little boy. He felt her hug him tighter and her soft voice filled him with a warmth that he had long forgotten existed.

"But you did, you found your way home again, and I'm so glad you did."

"I'm sorry, so sorry." He whispered. "I didn't mean to leave you. I just… I just had no choice but to go and I couldn't come back… not for anyone, not even for myself."

Those sad and defeated words echoed around him, like written words of a swan song and when he said them it was like admitting that he was the author of the wrong.

"I had to come back, even just for a moment, just to see if there were any last chances left behind for me." He sadly whispered, soaking in the warmth and the comfort of life from his old and familiar friend.

"Oh my dear Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson said softly as she reached a hand and stroked the soft black curls, a gesture now second nature after years of doing so.

"You have a lot of questions to answer you know, a lot of things left broken. I always wondered why but I guess those answers were for another time."

"You'll get your answers, Mrs. Hudson, I promise. " Sherlock said quietly, and he was aware that he becoming warmer, the light and colors in the dim kitchen started to become stronger and it began to feel like he had always remembered it.

She shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid I'm just an old silly woman who wears her heart on her sleeve, and who always dreaded the day where one of her loved ones would be buried before her and she would be forced to cry beside a grave with only silence attending."

Her words stilled him and quieted his mind that was beginning to recall the guilt and memories that he chose to carry and knew he would never surrender.

"I never thought I was worth crying for, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock replied raggedly, as her tired words took his breath away and blurred his vision once more.

She softly laughed and shook her head. "You silly boy," she whispered to him. "Don't you know? That right there, Sherlock, is what makes you most worth crying for."

And with those simple, yet most confusing words in the whole universe, Sherlock knew that he was forgiven.

Mrs. Hudson was glad that she got to live long enough to see one of her loved ones that she had buried over the years actually return to her and it to be a firm reality instead a wispy dream that she carried around like an empty bucket.

Sherlock looked up from Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, and his eyes met John's, who was standing in the kitchen doorway. John smiled at him and nodded encouragingly, and Sherlock knew as he stood there in the familiar old kitchen with Mrs. Hudson and John, that he was truly alive and there_ was_ a chance for brighter days.

He was home.

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_A/N: Well there you have my first chapter of my new drabble series. I hope you like it and there will be more to come!_

_Thank you for reading and I look forward to your reviews and support._

_See you in the next chapter, dear readers._

_Reviewers get to choose what type of flowers Mrs. Hudson got and if she slapped him or not after the ending of the chapter._


	2. Teacups and Pinky Promises

_A/N: Disclaimer I do not own Sherlock, I'm just visiting around with them._

_Hope you enjoy the new chapter, It's just something that came to me one night and I had to write it down._

* * *

It was a dismal, rainy day. John's shoulder ached and his mind echoed with the weight of earlier words, the pain in his shoulder acting as the ever constant reminder of the truth.

When John came home he found a silent, brooding Sherlock lying on the settee. John could almost imagine seeing the smoke surrounding him. He shook his head and sighed, taking off his coat.

He tried to talk to the unresponsive cloud of smoke on the settee and was only met by a wall of annoyed body language and a grunt that clearly stated _go away_ or _drop dead,_ John wasn't sure. It all sounded the same.

He sighed, and turned away from Sherlock, "Yeah never mind then, it doesn't even matter," he said under his breath on his way to the kitchen. "What difference can a man like me make anyway... It's just all the same now." _Cripple-useless_

After standing silently there in the kitchen for a moment he decided to make tea and he automatically made two cups, although he knew he would probably end up drinking both of them himself. A text tone chirped, and on checking his mobile he found that it was from Lestrade**.**

**Sherlock had a bit of a bad day today.****  
****Helped someone and only was rewarded with the name freak and then Donovan was at it again also. I just wanted to give you a heads up.**

**-G.L**

John sighed, and shook his head as he slipped his phone into his pocket and thought about the text and how much of a slap in the face that must have been for Sherlock, to have helped someone only to have been called such a back-handed and senseless name. _Freak._

Sherlock always acted like he didn't seem to care what people thought, but John knew to some point that he did and especially when it came to his work. John remembered the pain of overhearing someone - one of his patients actually, saying earlier today at the Locum about the _crippled doctor_ and they _didn't know why they had hired someone like that._

He didn't know why it still bothered him and Sherlock, they both should be used to it them by now, the looks and the names were no strangers to either of them as the years went by. It just seemed to hurt more when you weren't expecting it. Especially when it came from people you tried to help. It's the people you help that always surprise you.

_I guess I should always expect it_ he thought as he grabbed the two cups of tea and went into the living room. He set the cups on the coffee table in front of the settee and turned calmly, raising Sherlock's legs just enough for him to slip underneath them.

He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him as he silently reached for his cup, ignoring the slight echo of pain in his shoulder and turned the telly on, pleasantly surprised to find that a Dr. Who marathon was playing.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked pointedly, eyebrows raised in annoyance, but John noticed he didn't move his legs so he just shrugged slightly and answered simply "What does it look like I'm doing?" John answered, taking a sip of tea and placed his own tired legs out on the coffee table. "I'm drinking tea and watching telly."

"With my legs in your lap…"

John nodded. "Yes because they are in my _way_ and they are in my _spot_ and you don't look like you are going to _move_ any time soon."

"Hhmm.." Sherlock replied, in his best tone of apathy and slowly reached for his teacup, after looking at it for a moment, somewhat sadly, like he hoped it had some secret he was trying to figure out, he slowly took a sip and resumed his staring smoke holes into the ceiling._ Freak, Freak drinking tea, dull._

They sat and lay there on the couch, one staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain as he tried to ignore his mind and the other watching the telly and trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder. After a few minutes, John turned to his friend, his soft words gently pulling Sherlock out the struggles of the dark cloud of his mind.

"I don't think or see you as a freak." At first he didn't think Sherlock even heard him but after a moment Sherlock turned his head and looked at John, and John could see Sherlock turning the words around in his mind. John looked back over to the telly and took another sip of tea.

A few minutes passed, and still neither of them moved from their positions. Sherlock stretched out on the couch with his legs in John's lap and John drinking his tea with his legs on the coffee table.

"I do not think or see you as a cripple." John heard the calm and simple words and they touched him and he forgot his pain in his shoulder. He didn't know how Sherlock found out about today at the Locum but he guessed that Sherlock could always tell.

He turned to Sherlock and stated simply, gently "Alright then...I guess, I guess that truly is all that counts isn't it?"

Sherlock looked down at his tea." Yes," he replied softly then he raised his eyes again to meet John's. "Would you... would you tell me? And would you let me know when?"

"When what?" John asked, dreading what he knew was coming next.

"The day you see me as a freak." was the sad and honest reply.

"Oh... well..." John paused, looking up from his tea and took a deep breath, thinking for a moment about what Sherlock's words truly meant and he then only realized the solution to settle the disturbed question. He turned and looked at Sherlock.

"The day you see me as a cripple will be the day I see you as a freak."

Sherlock lay silent for a moment then a smiled slightly. "Deal? He whispered, eyes fixed on John, no annoyance or anger in them. They were clear blue as they were looking for the honest promise in the only one he knew would give it to him.

"Deal." John stated and he reached his teacup over to Sherlock's and they clicked their tea cups together. The symbol of sealing a promise, a Pinky promise of their friendship. John heard Sherlock sigh a little and felt him relax, stress of the day slipping from his body and John could feel his stress and pain wash away with it.

The Vincent and The Doctor episode came on and they let their earlier unhappy memories and emotions wash away with the rain of the day and they sat quietly in the cozy, peaceful flat and in the company of each other. Sherlock's legs in John's lap and John's hand resting on them and they both realized they had forgotten the last time they felt at peace with something and happy that they knew they did not have to go back and look and worry on it.

Sherlock tapped his foot gently against John's arm, asking in his calm but excited way that John was so very glad to hear again "Turn the volume up, this is my favorite episode."

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_A/N: I always wished I knew how to draw like some people, couldn't you just picture this story in your mind as you were reading it? I did as I wrote it._

_Reviewers get to sit on the couch and watch the DW episode of their choice with the boys._

_Well I hope you liked it, thanks for reading and I'll see you in the reviews._


	3. A 221B Study in Blue

_A/N: Here is my first 221B, I do not know anything more irksome than getting a even 221 words, I actually threw my hands in the air when I finally made it._

_I hope you enjoy it and I would love to read what you think of my little study in blue, it's been on my mind a while and I dug it out this weekend for you. It's from a tiny piece of Remains Of The Day that I wanted to do more explaining and study on._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock I'm just visiting around with them._

* * *

Mrs. Hudson had never really liked the color blue before the boys, she just never thought much of the color until they showed up.

_**Blue: **__Blue is the color of the sky and sea. It is often associated with depth and stability. It symbolizes trust, loyalty, wisdom, confidence, intelligence, faith, truth, and heaven._

But now through the years, the color had become something more to her, something significant and special. The color had come to have special meaning and memories for her: The flash of Sherlock's blue scarf as he dashed past her in the doorway after the ever present thrill and pursuit of _the game_.

_**Dark blue: **__Represents knowledge, power, integrity, and seriousness._

The excited shine in John's clear blue eyes as he came and kissed her on the cheek before following suit through the door as the_ ever_ loyal friend and blogger that he was.

_**Light blue**__:__ Associated with health, healing, tranquility, understanding, and softness._

She never knew something as _simple_ as a single color could hold and present such precious memories to a person as the color blue did to her. And if you ever happen to meet Martha Hudson of 221B Baker Street and ask her what Sherlock and John meant to her, she would laugh softly to herself and honestly say. "The color Blue."

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_A/N: Hope you enjoyed it and I'll see you in the reviews. Thank you for all the reviews and follows._

_I really appreciate my dear readers._

_Reviewers get a blue scarf and a bag of blue skittles._


	4. If Horses Were Wishes

_A/N: This one shot is for my friend KnightFury, who gave me the prompts about the boys taking a case and getting lost in the states and one about how they would cope with the heat. So I decided to put them together, it's not my usual Angst/Hurt comfort type of story and it's more on the lighter side. Sherlock might even be a bit OOC due to the heat but as a Texan it was great fun to write.  
_

_I hope you enjoy my experiment of writing on the lighter side =)_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, I'm just visiting around with them_

* * *

The burning sun beat down upon him as he slowly walked through the dirt. He was so irritatingly thirsty. Stupid transport, he hated being thirsty. They were lost and it felt as if he had walked for days. As he looked up he thought he could see the birds, buzzards to be exact, circling above him, expecting him to drop on his face at any moment. And just as he thought he couldn't move another step through the very dirty and red dirt, he heard a voice calling his name and he squinted at the heat waved figure ahead of him and the voice jolted him out of the edge of death that he knew was coming for him in the mirage of a pool of earl grey.

"Oh come on, _Sherlock!_ Grow up and keep walking, I told you we are not going to die and we are not lost."

"John." Sherlock called to the figure walking in front of him "We are lost and there are those things," He waved a bony hand up in the air at the feathered shapes flying above them, "I don't think we'll make it." Exasperated, John turned to look at the wilted figure staring down into the red dirt and looking miserable and quite cross with everything.

"Sherlock, we just started walking not ten minutes ago, come on I told you it's almost 5 miles to the town we passed on our way here, let's go, you are not the only one suffering here and the more we stop just so I can listen to you complain the longer it will be for us to get to a phone and a car."

"Whose bright idea was it to take this case anyway?" Sherlock asked as he slowly caught up with John and they started to walk along the bare and deserted road.

"Yours," John calmly replied and wiped sweat from his eyes. "_You_ wanted to take this case;_ you_ thought it would be a grand adventure and that we would regret not taking it.

"I regret a lot of things, John," Sherlock sighed as he pushed his damp curls away from his forehead and gazed up at the sun. "Right now I regret not shutting the door in Mycroft's face when he came to us with this case."

Sherlock scowled viciously at a lizard that darted past him. "Who knew Texas would be a special part of hell where they grow bushes, have no cell phone reception and make something that resembles tea but has nothing to do with tea, but!" Sherlock flung a hand out into the air to emphasize his speech. "Is in fact a sweetened motor oil." John could hear Sherlock rambling under his breath as he fell to walking behind him again.

John knew that when Sherlock's body- transport - gave him trouble, Sherlock was going to give John much more. "It's your fault we are stuck out here Sherlock, if you hadn't insulted that woman, I wouldn't have a bullet hole in my hat and we wouldn't be having to walk in this… whatever place it is we are lost in because the suspects stole our car."

"So you admit that we _are_ lost?" Sherlock's head perked up "And who knew 'Bless your heart' was an insult around here, I was just saying what many of the citizens here addressed me, besides, John," Sherlock paused and shook some dirt out of his shoe; "It's a lovely bullet hole."

"Only you would say that, Sherlock, only you." John muttered. And as they kept on walking, and complaining, they came across a farm, or was it a ranch, John didn't know, it all seemed the same to him.

An idea struck John as he saw the house and it looked like someone was home. "Come here," he said as he suddenly grabbed Sherlock by the shirt sleeve and led the complaining and sweaty detective to a stump by the roadside. "Sit." he ordered. Sherlock opened his mouth to retort but John cut him off. "Stay and I'll be right back."

Praying that the detective was too tired to disobey, John left the indignantly squawking Sherlock and walked up to the house. Sherlock kept to his tree stump and tried to keep his mind busy and off of the mirage of earl grey and seemed to be following him and messing with his mind and transport ridiculously. Just as he was counting backward from a thousand in French for the third time did Sherlock looked up to see John walking toward him leading a somewhat chubby grey horse.

"John Watson! Sherlock's voice cracked with surprise with his exclamation and he stood up like he had been shocked. "You didn't …"

John patted the horse's neck. "I did, and you know, for a brilliant man you can be so stupid, Sherlock." he retorted. "They didn't have a working telephone, and the truck was out of petrol, wouldn't you know, but after a few solid minutes of haggling I think I got a fairly good price on him."

Sherlock scowled at John and turned, then directed the scowl at the horse, which seemed to be scowling right back at him. "It doesn't even have a saddle, how are we supposed to ride and drive this thing without the proper standard equipment?"

John grinned proudly at Sherlock from under his hat. "His name is Judd and we'll ride him bareback, so come on." He motioned for Sherlock to move to the side of the horse. "He looks more like Mycroft," Sherlock observed and they both burst into a fit of laughter. "He rather does, doesn't he?" John agreed, trying to get control of himself.

After a bit of wrangling and a leg up from Sherlock, John managed to board Mycroft Judd and, for the tall and athletic man that Sherlock was, graceful was not always his middle name and after it finally taking John grabbing the back of his shirt and hauling him like a sack of potatoes, he managed to pull the undignified and annoyed detective up behind him.

"Alright then," John stated with a sigh of relief as they both tried to regain their dignity and composure the best they could. "Let's be off then." He picked up the reins and turned Mycroft Judd to the road and after a lot of creaking and scolding, the horse decided to give in.

"Are you sure you know how to drive one of these things, John?" Sherlock asked warily. John could feel him growing more tense with every move of the horse and John could feel Sherlock try not to hold onto him but failing miserably.

"Have you heard the expression 'Fake it till you make it,' Sherlock?" John asked as he clutched the reins and Sherlock clutched him. "No I haven't and it doesn't sound either logical or safe." Sherlock answered back somewhat despondently.

"Well that's what we are doing." John replied and adjusted his beautiful bullet holed hat, touching his heels to Mycroft Judd's sides and trying to ignore the ever increasing grip of his slightly panicked companion as the horse broke into a slow trot.

They went on this way for awhile. Mycroft Judd liked to veer off the road now and then after a tasty looking clump of weeds but with a lot of pulling on the rains from John and loud exclamations from Sherlock they managed to pull the horse back on the road and back on course.

"Your ridiculous hat keeps getting in my way and assaulting me, John." Sherlock irritatingly exclaimed after getting hit in throat for the hundredth time. "My cowboy hat stays, and the driver gets to wear it," John said calmly as he pulled Mycroft Judd away from a particular weed he was veering for. "You're just jealous because you turned down your hat they offered you back at the station."

"Oh please, John, you have been out in the sun for far too long, I wouldn't be caught dead wearing a hat like that, not to mention it is a jinx, the case was going along nicely till you attached yourself to that _thing_. If you ask me you should throw it overboard before we end up on what they call boot hill."

John rolled his eyes and shifted his weight slightly, for a fat horse, Mycroft Judd had a bony backbone. "My hat is not a jinx; _you_ were the one that made the case go downhill. And caused us to get shot at and my hat had nothing to do with it and it stays." he stated firmly and as if to prove the statement he gave it a little tap.

Sherlock gave a deep, groaning sigh and tried to look as dignified and British as he could, while seated behind a decidedly not British looking companion, and seated on the back of their very undignified steed, which was, at the moment, turning his attention to a large weed. "Oh come on!" John exclaimed as he fought to pull the horse away from his snack. "It's not tea time, I tell you."

"I saw a movie one time about people in Texas who caught travelers like us and ate them." Sherlock observed as Mycroft Judd ambled off, losing the battle with John. "And," Sherlock continued. "I do believe now that was actually more of a documentary just by the evidence we have seen of the inhabitants of this place so far."

John shook his head and laughed slightly. "Those people back there were not trying to eat you, Sherlock, shoot us and steal our car, yes, but they didn't look like the people eating kind of people, and if they were, Sherlock," John paused and a smirk filled his voice. "No one would be willing to eat a walking scarecrow who talks too much, it's bad on the digestive system."

Sherlock snorted and he flicked the sacred hat and was reward by a jab in the stomach by John's elbow, irritated and not thinking as clearly, and forgetting their precarious position, Sherlock retaliated the elbow jab with a punch to John's side and the next thing they knew, they both had ungraceful toppled off their steed and were lying side by side in the dirt.

"Well that escalated quickly…" Sherlock gasped after he remembered how to get his transport breathing again. "Sherlock," John stiffly said in the dirt beside him, "When I start breathing again you better start running because I will shoot you."

After they had stiffly gotten to their feet and John reclaimed his hat from a nearby bush they were both relieved to see Mycroft Judd had not wondered off and was happily eating a patch of grass. When they had haphazardly boarded their mount again, they set sail with a jinxed hat and a sullen Sherlock aboard and the rest of the trip was pleasantly quite.

After they made it back to civilization and the police station, and had stiffly dismounted and given the details of their adventure to the Sheriff, they found that the suspects had been arrested at something called a "Seven-Eleven and were now in jail and the car returned.

As they got ready to leave they remembered Mycroft Judd who was busy happily eating the Sheriff's potted fern. John patted the horse on the neck and Sherlock scowled at him. "You know, even though we had our troubles he was a pretty good horse, don't you agree, Sherlock?" John asked Sherlock and in reply Sherlock shrugged, and after a moment he replied, "He did fairly well for an overweight equine."

"Let's take a picture of him shall we? As our last goodbye to Mycroft Judd." Sherlock was going to refuse but something stopped him and, smiling to himself, he readily agreed and handed the sheriff his phone to take the picture with.

A few days later, Mycroft received an envelope in the mail and on opening it he found two pictures and a note that said.

**Notes of the Texas case, these pictures were worth it all. **One picture was of John and Sherlock with a horse standing between them and Sherlock and John looking very dusty and worse for wear but both trying to look serious and dignified. John's hat, which he proudly wore, was adorned with a very large bullet hole. And the back of the picture stated.** John and Sherlock, who survived Texan cannibals, sweet tea and boot hill with our unfaithful steed, Mycroft Judd. This is the Judd part in this picture**

In the second picture they both were smiling wildly and they were standing on either side of the horse's very large rear. They each had an arm draped across it and John's hat was perched on it at a jaunty angle. The back of that picture only said. **This is the picture with the Mycroft part, we think the hat did wonders for it. Christmas is coming. Thanks for the memories.  
**

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_A/N: Well, I hope you enjoyed it, let me know in the reviews what you think of it and if I should do more of this genre along with my sad ones._

_And I'm starting to take any prompts, so if you have one for me let me know, and I'll see what I can do with it._

_Thank you for reading._

_Reviewers get John's cowboy hat with the beautiful bullet hole =)_


	5. Boxes, Bins and Short Bloggers

_A/N: Here is another 221B for you. It's one that I had been thinking about for a few days and I challenged myself to write it in one sitting. I hope you enjoy it._

_~Thank You, KnightFury for the Brit picking, it was much appreciated~_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, I'm just visiting with them._

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson!" The shouting nearly made her spill her tea. She sighed calmly, and called back, "In the sitting room, Sherlock, and there is no need to bellow, I'm old but not deaf... not yet." Sherlock burst into the sitting room, looking a bit disheveled. "Have you got a box?"

"A box?" She questioned. "Yes, a box. A plastic box or any box will do." He answered impatiently.

"There is one underneath the cupboard under the sink, dear." She replied with a wave of her hand. He strode into the kitchen muttering under his breath, about short people and bins.

"What happened to John? He left with you earlier." Her voiced followed him into the kitchen. "Umm, he... he's waiting for me," Sherlock's voiced trailed off and he added, "In one of the industrial- sized bins, I'm afraid he's a bit _stuck_, it's empty and he's too short to get out."

"You _left _him in my rubbish bin? What have I told you about putting John in places like that; he's smaller and can get lost easily." A crash resounded from the kitchen and a shout of victory filled the air. Sherlock raced past her, a large plastic box in his arms, scarf flying behind him. "I must get to John and the bin before the rubbish collectors collect my blogger!"

* * *

_A/N: Well, I hope you enjoyed it and I would love to read your reviews and comments on the new piece. Also, if you have any good and interesting prompts for me that I could add to the drabble series, be sure to drop me a note and I'll see what I can do with them._

_Reviewers get to be rescued from a dumpster from the fandom character of their choice._


	6. Catch a Fallen Star

_A/N: So, I'm not sure exactly where this came from other than it's almost Fall, I'm in the angst mood and I was thinking about glow in the dark stars the other day, so forgive me for the sadness. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, I'm just visiting around with them._

* * *

Sherlock met him at the door, late one rainy September night. He seemed quite pleased with himself and didn't even give John a chance to take off his coat as he led the protesting doctor into the dimly lit living room, dragging him by his coat sleeve with exclamations of "Come on John, just give me a few minutes, you won't regret it."

John sighed tiredly and rolled his eyes as he watched his flat mate throw himself onto the living room floor amidst a pile of pillows that were strategically placed, and grinned up at him. "What are you doing, Sherlock?" John asked warily. He knew a happy Sherlock meant a mess that John would have to clean up and a moody Sherlock to deal with soon afterwards.

Sherlock only grinned gleefully up at John in reply and patted the floor beside him with his hand. Shaking his head and knowing he was going to regret this somehow, John slowly lowered himself to the floor beside Sherlock and rested his head on the pillow Sherlock handed him as his eyes immediately took in what Sherlock was trying to show him.

He couldn't help but gasp in surprise at their now transformed and star-studded ceiling that seemed to shine down on him and Sherlock like a glorious chorus of colors. Placed on the ceiling were about a hundred or so glow in the dark stars and planets, each had their own unique shape and color and were stuck gracefully to their sky with sticky tack. They all shone brightly against the blackness of the room and they seemed to be swirling and sweeping across the ceiling.

It seemed as if the colors touched and mixed with each other and the old water stained ceiling had come alive with bright hyper active stars that John knew were victims of the latest experiment of the genius sprawled beside him, clutching the old union jack pillow while trying to act casual.

"You're like Vincent Van Gogh with glow in the dark stars and sticky tack, Sherlock." John laughed, his tiredness and annoyance now forgotten. "It's beautiful." He heard Sherlock chuckle softly. "I knew you would like it, today was terribly boring and we ran out of tea and so here they are." Sherlock gestured proudly at his luminous artwork with a sweep of his hand

"I thought you didn't know or care for anything about stars and such?" John asked Sherlock, who lay beside him trying to contain his excitement at John's praise. Sherlock shrugged, trying to act nonchalant "I know a little more than you think and the rest I just made up to make everything as I see it."

Sherlock pointed to a large orange moon, "There's Mycroft," He motioned to a small purple star, and a pink half-moon, "There are Mrs. Hudson and Molly." He continued on pointing out different stars and planets and their names, Sherlock's version. Lestrade was a flaming green comet and Donovan and Anderson were two tiny yellow shooting stars that appeared as if they were going to crash into the large yellow sun.

_He's showing me his universe_ thought John and he realized that he was starting to understand what Sherlock was trying to share and explain to him, in that way of Sherlock's that you had to use your heart instead of your eyes to understand.

"And who are those two stars, Sherlock?" John asked as he pointed to two light blue stars that were close together and it seemed as if all the constellations and stars swirled and centered around those two small stars. "That is us, John," Sherlock softly answered. "Just the two of us against the rest of the world." The quiet and simple reply surprised John, he never realized until now that this was how Sherlock pictured them.

"It's a pretty big world, Sherlock." John whispered as he swallowed past the lump in his throat at the gift Sherlock had just given him. "I know," Sherlock replied, "That is why you are there next to me, because I… I can't do it alone." Stillness hung over the room as John thought over those words and he knew that it was true for both of them.

"Those are pretty brave stars, Sherlock." John softly replied as he looked over at his friend. Sherlock nodded, his curls spread out on his pillow like a dark halo. "Yes, I suppose they are, the funny thing about these stars is that they keep on shining so the other one knows where it is and that they are both still alive. They know if they just keep shining they can keep each other alive in the sky and not let the other fall. That is what makes them brave, it's each other."

Sherlock's voice faded as if surprised by himself and what he was letting himself say and he tried to cover it up by a wave of his hand at the stars. "Sentimental things, stars." Sherlock laughed softly. John looked over at Sherlock and let the honest and strangely humble words coming from Sherlock wash over him and they looked at each other for a moment and John smiled at Sherlock, "I'm glad... I'm glad you picked me." He whispered and as they silently turned to look back up at the ceiling, they let their eyes trace the twin stars and John heard him softly but clear as day whisper back, "I'm glad you picked me."

As John shook his head and smiled to himself in the dark, they both silently wished and hoped that they could be as strong and brave as those stars that shone hopefully and courageously above them.

They lay there, side by side on the living room floor and they let the stars of their universe watch over them, as they made up names for the extra stars and planets and they talked about the day's events, Sherlock's newest case, John's work down at the Locum. As the night wore on and the successful experiment shone above them, they listened to the soft rain patter against the window panes and they fell asleep in the midst of their pillows, under their brave and sentimental stars.

~~0~0~0~0~0~0~~

No one met him at the door that rainy night, trying to ignore the dull ache and pain in his shoulder and leg, he let himself in the dark flat, not even bothering to turn on the light as he walked slowly into the living room, and tried not to notice the empty chairs beside the dead fireplace. He silently lowered himself onto the floor and rested his head down on the union jack pillow that still faintly smelled of Sherlock.

He lifted his tired eyes to look up at the stars that still stuck to the ceiling, though now it seemed like all their life and light had been taken from them and their colors had faded away. They no longer shone or danced and now they just appeared as they really were, like plastic stars stuck with sticky tack to a water stained ceiling. It seemed like the stars had died along with Sherlock, none of them having any life to offer John.

One of the twin stars had disappeared from the rest of the stars after Sherlock's death. John thought it had fallen down and he had searched for it frantically, but could not find it anywhere in the flat. As he lay there in the dark he wondered if the star had also been just a dream, but he knew by the empty space beside the hollow and faded star left behind that it had been so very real. It had the look of something left behind.

The universe started to blur as the tears came, and he covered his face with his shaking hands and as he lay there alone, John Watson cried. He cried for himself, he cried for his best friend and he cried for what he once had and knew he would never find again because he knew that soldiers like him never got second chances. As the tears slipped between his fingers, all he could think of was that he had let him fall, and there was nothing he could do or say to make Sherlock come back. John had failed. He had left Sherlock and let him fall.

You can't wish upon a fallen star when your best friend had become that fallen star. Wishes of fallen stars cannot save themselves. He lay there on the cold living room floor, the empty space beside him growing heavy in his mind as the soft rain pattered against the window panes in the vain attempt to cover up the sobs.

~~0~0~0~0~0~0~~

No one was waiting for him that cold night as he entered the motel room that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. As he settled down on the worn-out bed, he pulled out the faded blue plastic star from his battered coat pocket. Mycroft had silently handed it to him the last time they had met. Sherlock hadn't asked for the star; but somehow his brother knew he would want it -needed it- sometimes spying on the flat had its advantages.

He wiped the dried blood from it with his thumb, the small star had survived many hard days and nights with him during his travels but he had always managed to keep it with him. He almost lost it a few times but he always managed to find it again. He closed his fingers around it as he lay there in the run down motel room, as the No Vacancy sign flashed through his window.

He closed his eyes and listened to the rain coming down, his mind started to rebelliously wander and started to think about another rainy night and another star he once knew, and a cool wet sensation started to run down his face in the darkness. He realized that he was doing what people did when something or someone died and they knew would never see again. He realized that it was something John would call _grief_ and he could hear John's kind voice in the back of his mind, saying that it was something that was alright to have.

He had never let himself face the feeling before, but for the first time, Sherlock Holmes admitted to the feeling of regret. To his dismayed surprise, he helplessly pressed his palms against his forehead, and Sherlock Holmes cried. He cried for himself, he cried for what had been his only friend and for what he once had and he knew he would never have again because he realized it all too late.

He didn't know as much about stars as John did but even Sherlock knew that once a star had fallen, there was nothing on earth or heaven the could place it back in the sky from where it had once shone bright. Even if it had the choice and the will to live again, it was separated forever by the vast space between darkness and light.

He lay there on the hard bed, letting the wet streaks on his weary face match the wet streaks on the cracked window pane as the soft rain pattered against it and he clutched his bloodied and faded star, hoping that someway it still might have something left in it to guide him back to the unreachable place he used to know as home.

* * *

_A/N: I'll see you in the reviews where I'll be passing out the tissues._

_Reviewers get glow in the dark stars and pumpkin spice coffee_


	7. Little Brothers and Large Regrets

_A/N: I realized that I didn't have a chapter about Lestrade or Mycroft in my drabble series, so I dug up this study piece from** We Might Not Make It Home, **one of my first stories ever written. Forgive me for the angsty attack of nostalgia of digging this up, the fall weather does this to me._

_This is for all the Lestrade and Mycroft lovers._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, I'm just visiting around with them._

* * *

It took a very concerned and almost frantic Mycroft kneeling down in front of him and softly talking to Sherlock for a few minutes for him to finally let Lestrade take John from his arms whilst Sherlock, feeling Mycroft's arms around him finally let himself slip into the darkness that he had so long tried to stay away from.

As soon as John was pulled away from Sherlock they both stopped breathing again. Iit was as if their lifeline had been severed, and Lestrade started to resuscitate John, kneeling beside him and doing chest compressions, counting and desperately wishing that the ambulance would get here soon. John did not look good.

He looked up to see Mycroft on his knees beside Sherlock, that notorious black umbrella lying beside him in the dirt, talking to his brother and trying to wake him, desperation edging the older Holmes' voice as he began to clumsily copy Lestrade's movements that he was performing on John.

The DI could see that Mycroft Holmes hadn't the slightest idea how to give CPR to a person – it figured, seeing as the man never got his hands dirty – but the _flustered _and _distraught_ look on Mycroft's face as the older man looked down on his younger brother showed Lestrade how helpless the man felt.

Mycroft Holmes – one of the most important men in Britain – could prevent wars around the nation but did not know the simplest bit of information on how to keep his brother's heart beating.

Mycroft looked desperately over at Lestrade, his face trying to keep its usual coolness but the DI could see lines of it cracking, the supposedly extinct emotion starting to show in the man's eyes.

"I don't know _how_," the elder Holmes whispered, with a mixture a frustration and worry as he placed his hand on his brother's chest. His voice wavered just slightly.

As calmly as he could, Lestrade began to instruct Mycroft from across the room and Mycroft, following Lestrade's example on John, began to quickly give chest compressions to his younger brother.

He was talking to him as he did so, trying to think of every threat in the book to tell Sherlock, as if they would keep him from dying. The Ice Man was slowly starting to melt as the fear and panic started to creep up inside him as the seconds ticked by and his brother's eyes stayed closed.

He realized that there was a great possibility that Sherlock would not be able to fake his way out of this death. _This time_ he would not find Sherlock sitting on his settee a few hours later, his eyes haunted, but very much alive, as had been the last time Mycroft had thought death had come for his brother.

They kept on giving life to John and Sherlock, trying to keep their hearts beating, trying not to fail the people that they cared for and had invested so much in. They would give anything for those dying boys to open their eyes again.

They knew they were Sherlock and John's only chance and hope of surviving now, that they could no longer help each other and that they _desperately_ needed someone else to intercede and help them.

"Come on, Sherlock," Mycroft whispered to his deathly pale and still brother who lay in front of him as he pressed down on his chest. "Not again, you can't make me go through this again!" He hesitated "I know I have never told you before, but I do _need_ you, and I _do care_ and I'm _sorry_ I never told you before.

"I should have; as your brother, I _should have. _If you won't live for me, do it for John. I'm so sorry I wasn't able to come sooner, brother mine, but don't stop breathing now just to spite me."

In and out. In and out.

Sherlock seemed so fragile and cold underneath his hands, so still; he was covered in blood. _Why is it so red?_ Mycroft could see the tear tracks on his brother's blood and dirt stained face, making tears of Mycroft's _own_ burn his eyes.

His mind flashed back to an image of a little boy with black curls, his eyes so clear and bright, the feathers in his old battered pirate hat swishing in the wind as he raced around, swinging a wooden sword that Mycroft had made for him. The _only_ burden and care in the little boy's _mind_ was growing up to be a pirate.

When Mycroft looked down at the figure before him he saw that little boy again, but the happiness and carefree light was gone now, replaced by the shadow of death and sadness, those clear and bright eyes would not open, blood was spattered in those black curls and tears stained his cheeks. Only the sound of silence surrounded him, no excited voice begged Mycroft to play with him.

Even the strongest of ice cracks under the strain of something it cannot bear.

"Please Sherly, please don't make me have to make _that call_ to Mummy.. " The long dormant emotion deep within Mycroft curled around the edges of his voice. "Don't let me help people all over the world and not be able to save my own brother."

He received no reply. Mycroft didn't even notice his fallen tears as they mixed with the ones on his brother's cheek.

Across the room Lestrade was working on John, he could see the smaller man had lost a lot of blood. Lestrade continued with his compressions, ignoring the stain of red that was beginning to cover his hands.

"Come on, John," he whispered. "This isn't your time, not now, not here. This is the time for living, not _dying_. All that business with death is _behind_ you and Sherlock now; you no longer have to carry it. The past isn't your ghost anymore so you have make it stop haunting you. We _both_ have seen enough death, please John, don't... don't make me bury two of the _best_ men I have ever known.…"

The tears in his throat stopped his voice and he glanced at John's still face.

The Soldier that had committed his life to save and protect others from the victory and pain of death was too injured and weary to keep fighting, unable to save and help himself in this battle, his _last_ battle.

The Doctor that had taken a vow to help heal the wounded and sick had become too weak and wounded to treat himself. The Doctor with no _cure._

John Watson who had spent his _whole_ life helping and saving others had nothing left with which to save himself.

And he was _silent_.

Tears blurred the DI's vision.

In and out. In and out.

He glanced up to look at Sherlock who was lying a few feet away and glanced at Mycroft. _We aren't going to be able to save them are we? _The horrible thought shot through Lestrade, making more tears sting his eyes. He shook his head and angrily wiped his eyes on his coat sleeve and continued to work on John.

He glanced at Mycroft, catching sight of the dawning defeat and desperation on the elder Holmes' face as he worked on Sherlock's too-still form.

As if reading Lestrade's thoughts, Mycroft, between compression's on Sherlock, quietly said, "We have to. They have gone through too much already. We…we can't lose them again." Their eyes met for a second, nodding with determination and _silent agreement_ with each other as they turned back to the wreck of the day that was the dying men in front of them and continued on with their compressions and silent pleading.

In and out. In and out.

* * *

_A/N: I have nothing to say for myself other than I'll be handing out tissues and hot chocolate in the review section._

_I guess we could say this is the official tragedy section of the comedies and tragedies._

_I'm sorry._

_Reviewers get to hug Mycroft or Lestrade and get comfort food of their choice._


	8. Explosions and Apologies

_A/N: Here is my version of a prompt from KnightFury._

_It is set somewhere in the first season while Sherlock and John are still getting used to living with each other and they have their first major fight._

_I'm sorry for the double posting of this chapter, nothing seemed to want to cooperate with it last week and I thought I would give it another try today since Mondays are always a good day for a mix of angst and feels._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, I'm just visiting around with them._

_Hope you enjoy it, all reviews and comments are highly loved and appreciated._

* * *

He looked around the crowded train station, searching the sea of people for that one face that he knew wouldn't be there but hoped would be anyway. John remembered the angry words they had exchanged before he had left and Sherlock's face as it turned to heated stone as it did when he spoke to people who hurt and disgusted him.

What was the fight about anyway? An experiment that had gone wrong, he remembered. Sherlock had gotten sidetrack and miscalculated something he was mixing. John didn't know what it was and neither did he care as he stared open-mouthed at the ruins of what had been their brand new kitchen table.

Sherlock knew what he had done was more than a bit not good and he tried to scramble around to clean up the mess, but John, who was usually an extremely patient man had been beyond upset that day. It didn't help that this wasn't their first argument that week and there was already tension between them, as Sherlock was going through a difficult case and John's shoulder had been hurting more than usual and every day in the little flat seemed like a battlefield.

John was _supposed_ to have been leaving, at that moment, for a much needed a vacation at Stamford's for a couple of days. Instead, he spent an hour cleaning up from the Kitchen Table Tragedy and missed his train. By the time he had finished lugging the remains of the table out to the bin in the back alley, while Sherlock flitted around looking at his experiment notes, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong, John had completely lost control of his temper.

"_If you were just a normal flatmate who didn't do asinine experiments at indecent hours and destroy everything in sight and would only try to be more considerate of other people!"_

"_If you don't like my experiments and what I do, you can always leave and get a normal flatmate."_

"_I think I will leave, maybe that way I'll have decent chance at a normal life."_

"_Good, I don't need you anyway, so don't look back when you leave, because I won't."_

John flinched as he remembered the look on Sherlock's face as John's last words hit him. John never imagined he would be the one to put a look of such anger and hurt on Sherlock's face. He sighed as he sat down on one of the train station benches. All during his stay at Stamford's he had thought about the fight and if either of them truly meant what they had said.

_I hurt him._

They had gotten into plenty of rows before but they had never threatened to part ways from each other, at least not until now. Sherlock was supposed to pick him up from the station, they had decided the day before the fight happened, and John figured that today would be the deciding factor of the truth, whether Sherlock showed up for him or not.

They both had had a couple of days to cool down. John had wanted to text Sherlock and apologize but he always stopped himself, he was tired of always being the one to make the first move. His phone was strangely quiet the last few days, no annoying text messages from Sherlock asking him when he would be home or if he would buy milk or pick up a cow's liver for him. Usually his phone would be going off at least every half hour, but not this time. As John sat and thought about it, he didn't think that Sherlock would have replied even if he had tried to text him.

_I was wrong._

He glanced down at his watch, he had been at the station thirty minutes now, and Sherlock wasn't coming. John had let his tongue and temper get the best of him this time and if he knew anything at all, it was that Sherlock Holmes was not a forgiver and he never forgot what he said.

_Well John, this it, he isn't coming, we messed up big time and there is no going back. _He sighed and rubbed his hand across his face, wishing that words could be taken back as easily as they were said.

"How was the train ride?, boring as always, I imagine." Startled out of his thoughts, John looked up to see Sherlock looking down at him, apprehensively.

"You came back, I… I didn't think you would, that's why I was late, I wasn't sure..." Sherlock hesitated at John's silence, he wasn't sure if John was even listening or that he cared any more at all after what Sherlock had said that dreadful day.

John looked down at the floor for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts; he could feel Sherlock's uneasiness around him. Sherlock didn't know what to expect from him, neither did John, to be perfectly honest with himself. John wanted to tell him that he was sorry and that he hadn't meant what he said, but he could still hear Sherlock's words echo in his mind "_Good, I don't need you anyway so don't look back when you leave, because I won't."  
_

_We were wrong._

He decided it was now or never now and it didn't matter if they were no longer flat mates. He couldn't let Sherlock walk away without telling him he was sorry. John took a breath to steady himself as he raised his head and looked at his former flatmate.

"Sherlock, what I said… well, it was terribly unfair and I was wrong. You don't have to forgive me, Sherlock, because I will never forgive myself, but I just wanted you to know before we..."

His voice trailed off, and with a helpless wave of his hands, he fell silent, not able to bring himself to finish. Their eyes met, distraught grey on saddened blue as they searched for forgiveness.

Sherlock looked away from John, not being able to look into those blue eyes any longer, relief at John's words flooded over Sherlock, _maybe they still have a chance after all. _His voice was filled with almost child like sadness.

"I... I forgot to say good-bye, I should have never let you go without at least saying good bye. That's what people do isn't it, John? Say good bye."

The desperate tone and unselfish words tugged at John, he could see the worry lines on his friend's face as he stated his remorse. John nodded as he sighed.

"Yeah, Sherlock, that's what people should do, and I didn't even think about it." Shame filled him again as he remembered his last words. Not_ "Good-bye Sherlock, take care of yourself and I'll be home soon."_ But only, "_I think I will leave, maybe that way I'll have decent chance at a normal life."_ The look on Sherlock's face made John look away as tears burned his eyes.

"I said I wouldn't look back... but I did..." Sherlock's voice trailed off in a defeated whisper.

_I'm Sorry. Forgive me._

John stood and walked over to Sherlock, and he hugged him. Sherlock was completely taken aback, as he was unfamiliar with hugs and he had no idea what do with them. So he just stood frozen in dread at what this gesture might mean, people hugged each other when they said good-bye, didn't they?

This was it, John really was leaving and everything he had said that day was true. John could sense Sherlock's worried over thinking. "You know, hugs are also a way of saying hello and welcome back."

As he spoke, he immediately felt the stiffness and anxiety in Sherlock's body melt away as he finally understood John's meaning and slowly, he returned John's embrace. As he hugged John, all the worry and regret faded to hope, and relief filled him that they were both forgiven and they could continue on like they used to be, "Come on, you," John said after he finally let go of his friend and flatmate, "Let's go home."

_I'm forgiven.  
_

"So did you miss me?" Sherlock asked a few minutes later as they walked side by side towards the exit. John smiled at him. "No, not really."

"Oh…" Sherlock look downcast again, the disappointment returning. John rolled his eyes. "Okay, yes maybe a little."

"A little what?" Sherlock prodded in excited expectation, his eyebrows raised. John sighed "Yes, I missed your stupid face."

Sherlock didn't think he had ever heard more beautiful words.

* * *

___A/N: _Thanks for all the reviews and follows this drabble has gotten so far, keep them coming and I'll keep writing!

_ All reviewers get an origami owl =)  
_


	9. Umbrella's and Jelly Babies

_A/N: This is a little 221B about how Mycroft gets his beloved umbrella and who gives it to him._

_I hope you like it, and I look forward to your reviews and comments.  
_

_Disclaimer same as the other chapters._

* * *

"Care if I sit?" The curly haired man asked, holding an umbrella in one hand and clutching the ends of a very long, multi colored scarf with the other.

Mycroft moved down the bench. As the man sat, his umbrella half covered Mycroft, shielding him slightly.

"Jelly Baby?" The man asked, offering the bag of sweets. Mycroft accepted one, the diet was blown anyway.

"Thank you." He said and they sat in silence as rain fell around them.

Mycroft was grateful for the umbrella; he had just started walking. No place special, just trying to clear his mind. When the rain started to fall, he was too tired to care, rain was the least of his worries these days.

"You know, every man needs a good umbrella beside him," The man leaned closer to Mycroft, whispering as if he were sharing the best secret in the universe. "Just between you and me, they make wonderful companions._ Never_ underestimate a good umbrella."

The rain lightened as he stood, straightening his ridiculously long scarf. Cheerfully he handed Mycroft the umbrella.

"You may keep the umbrella. Farewell, be good to _yourself_ and don't forget what I told you."

Mycroft nodded, unable to find words. Raising his hat to Mycroft the man turned and strolled down the street, whistling merrily with his scarf trailing behind.

* * *

_A/N: Anyone who knows the man with the scarf gets a bag of jelly babies, just for being that awesome. =)  
_

_If you don't know, I would be honored to tell you about him._


	10. Will you come to my funeral?

_A/N: Here's another 221B, I'm not actually sure where it came from..._

_ I'm sorry for whatever emotional damage this handful of words may bring._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, I'm just visiting around with them._

* * *

"Will you come to my funeral?" The calm question made Sherlock look up. Worriedly he asked, "Are you planning on going anytime soon?"

John looked down at the floor. "No, I was just wondering if when the time came, you would come."

Sherlock frowned, "Of course I'll come, don't be silly." John nodded, satisfied with the answer and went back to reading his paper.

Sherlock paused in his experiment and after a moment hesitantly asked, "Will you come to mine?"

John smiled at him. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." Sherlock raised his teacup to him. "Aright then, that's settled."

"What if we died at the same time? What if we died together_?_" John asked seriously. "Who would come then?"

Sherlock laughed softly, "Well, _we_ wouldn't have to worry about _missing_ each others funeral that way."

John nodded, "Shall we make a deal to go together, then? Since we'll be able to attend each others funeral for sure."

"That sounds good to me." Sherlock admitted and John leaned over to him, reaching out his pinky finger. "Pinky promise?"

Sherlock smiled sadly, wrapping his pinky around John's. "Pinky promise." He whispered.

_Tears ran down John's face as he knelt before the head stone. "You said we could go together, you promised we would. You left me, Sherlock, you left me behind."_

* * *

_A/N: Reviewers get a box of tissues and a sock monkey. It's the least I can do, right?  
_


	11. Be Ok

_A/N: Well... I planned on writing a happy 221B, but this just happened so I hope you forgive me and enjoy another sad one_.

_Disclaimer same as the other chapters._

_This is for all the John Watsons out there._

* * *

"I can't do it today, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood beside John's bed, not understanding why John couldn't get up and visit the crime scene with him.

"Are you sick?"

"No," John replied wearily, lying curled up on his side. "I just... can't do it today."

Sherlock gently sat on John's bed, suddenly realizing what _"I just can't do it today" _actually meant.

Sherlock knew this changing of the season was hard on John; it brought him moods almost as black as Sherlock's.

But, unlike Sherlock who let them obviously overcome him. John kept them to himself, always trying _so_ hard to hide them.

Keeping his poker face while Sherlock, who had _no_ personal buffer, left John carrying Sherlock's dark moods and his own like the soldier he was.

Placing his hand over John's, stilling the slight tremor. Sherlock leaned over, his worried eyes finding John's downhearted blue ones, almost hidden beneath the blanket.

"You are kind, you are smart and you are _important_." He whispered.

Translation: _You're going to be okay, John. You __can__ do it._

"Promise?" John sadly whispered, looking at Sherlock from underneath the blanket.

"I promise" Sherlock answered softly.

While getting dressed, John smelled breakfast cooking. Sherlock must have decided to stay home with him. He smiled, knowing that with Sherlock beside him the day _couldn't_ hurt as bad.

* * *

_A/N: I thought the line from The Help was a excellent way for Sherlock to comfort John in the exact the way he needed it._

_Hope you enjoyed it! I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments about the dear boys in this sad part of their lives and the different ways they find to comfort each other.  
_

_ Reviewers get a Not A Minnie's Chocolate Pie_.


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